


Each Slight Variation

by Sharksdontsleep



Category: Hockey RPF, Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: Canon Gay Character, Canon Gay Relationship, Crossover, F/F, Gen, NHL Lockout, RPF/FPF Crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-26
Updated: 2013-07-26
Packaged: 2017-12-21 11:17:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/899654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sharksdontsleep/pseuds/Sharksdontsleep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Human cloning?” he says, finally. “Uh, it’d explain the Staals, I guess.”</p><p>Or what Paul Martin probably didn't do during the lockout.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Each Slight Variation

**Author's Note:**

> So, this started when I was joking with Marycontraire about how Paul Martin and Cosima both spent time at the University of Minnesota (uh, one fictionally, obviously), and wouldn't it be funny if they met. Set during the 2012 lockout. Not sure how that maps with the Orphan Black timeline, since some of this is set after the first season, but we'll make it work.
> 
> Kudos to Marycontraire for enabling my absolute absurdity, though she wouldn't let me name the fic 'Orphan Black and Gold.' 
> 
> This comes with the disclaimer that the events portrayed are all fiction. If you found this by googling someone famous (or yourself!), turn back now.
> 
> "I have called this principle, by which each slight variation, if useful, is preserved, by the term of Natural Selection." - Darwin

Paul meets Cosima when she runs him over him as he's passing one of the biology buildings.

She manages to soak him in coffee, and then gives him some explanation that he only understands every third word of that basically amounts to why she won't help him clean up. She does throw a scarf at him - not a knit scarf, but something in a weird skull print that smells like whatever Nealer uses on his hair - and dashes off.

He doesn't manage to get the coffee out of his coat, but it fades enough that he doesn't much care. He can replace it if - when he gets back to Pittsburgh. The scarf presents something of a problem. He rinses that and hangs it to drip-dry in the bathroom of the apartment that the university is comping him. It was a generous offer on their part, one he didn't want to turn down, but it turned out the 'apartment' was little more than a refinished dorm.

On the one hand, the woman, whoever she was, didn't seem that attached to her scarf. On the other, Paul doesn't want to throw the scarf out, but he definitely wants it out of his apartment. His mother had raised her eyebrows nearly to her hairline, and didn't seem to believe his mumbled explanation about a mysterious dreadlocked geek outside the bio labs.

It turns out it's not that hard to track her down.

The lab she's working at - the one she'd been coming out of when they bumped into each other - has security measures, so everyone has to swipe ID and press their palm to a handscanner on entry and exit. Security knows her well from his short description; apparently she doesn't like to de-glove before hand-scanning on the way out, much to the consternation of the security guard.

Her name's Cosima and, no, the guard will not hold her scarf for her. Paul sighs. He's done with 'consulting' for the day, the U's term for his hanging around with the team. No one's emailed about the lockout's progress. Skating would take his mind off things, but it's less fun when he's on the ice playing keep-away with college students.

It doesn't take long, though. He hears her before he sees her, something about evo-devo, which is probably science and not, like, the band, and he feels dumber just for having the thought. He'll probably share it with someone on the team, later, Duper or Nealer, maybe.

She's accompanied by a striking blond woman who's speaking with a French accent. Cosima has to pause and de-glove before they both scan out, and she offers the other woman her hand when she does. They're still talking animatedly when he tries to interrupt.

"You lost?" Cosima says, when she sees him standing in their path, before he can say anything.

"No, I - here." He holds out the scarf, maybe a little more forcefully than necessary. "Thanks, I mean."

"Oh, coffee," Cosima says. The woman with her looks confused for a second, but doesn't ask. "I spilled coffee on him, like three days ago. There was an article that I'd requested, and why they needed me to pick it up and couldn't just PDF it to me, and it's not like we actually have a subscription to the Journal of Soviet Genetics, 'cause who does? So, I was rushing. Gels don’t wait, you know?"

"Ah," the other woman says, like that makes sense.

Paul suddenly has a clearer understanding of what trying to explain fancystats to non-hockey fans must sound like.

"So, yeah," he says. "I guess I'll just -"

Cosima's friend, or possibly girlfriend, speaks up. "She spilled coffee on me, once, when she was telling me about her thesis. I think it's her way of greeting."

Paul laughs, and rubs the back of his neck. "No worries. Just returning the scarf."

"You were waiting for us," the blond woman says. "That is - _Minnesota nice_ , yes?" She says it like it's a term she's just learned. From her, it sounds almost musical.

"Yep, you bet," he says, accent as thick as possible. She laughs. Cosima frowns.

"Delphine," the blonde says, offering her hand.

"Paul," he says. They shake, briefly.

Cosima, at this point, has rolled her eyes a few times. "Yeah," she says. "Cosima." She doesn't offer her hand.

"Paul," Delphine says. "Would you like to join us? We are going to a lecture on evolutionary development of -" the words sort of blend together after that, but it's for sure something about science and probably something he won't understand. Still, it'd be nice to know people outside the hockey program, and also closer to his age, even if it means feeling like a dumbass about it.

He'd read a Jared Diamond book last year, much to Nealer's mockery. Somehow, that probably wasn't going to cut it.

"Sure," he says. "That sounds, uh, neat."

Cosima gives him one final eye-roll, then grabs Delphine's hand like she needs to make a point. "C'mon, then."

It turns out the lecture is on human cloning. Or, at least the part that he can comprehend is.

He feels like the squarest person in the audience - there are people with oddly colored hair and white contacts over their eyes, ones who ask about things that sound out of comic books that the speaker answers like they're serious questions. Maybe they are. Delphine nods along like all this is totally normal and logical, while Cosima makes huffing noises and mutters derisive comments under her breath.

Paul just tries not to send up a beacon of being the only person in the room who doesn't really get what DNA is, much less whatever 'epi' modifications to it means.

There's a Q and A with the speaker - a short woman who's apparently a post-grad at Wisconsin - about her research. Delphine seems intent on staying, though Cosima clearly isn't.

There's a brief, unspoken argument between them, the kind Paul associates with couples who have been together a long time.

"I owe him a coffee," Cosima says, finally, pointing to him, as if it’s an accusation.

Paul holds up his hands like he doesn't want to get in the middle of it, but it seems to resolve matters.

He does insist on buying them both coffees, just to be equitable. "Don't take this the wrong way, but I probably make a bit more than you do," he says, when Delphine offers her card at the coffee cart.

Neither Cosima nor Delphine has heard of him - they've barely heard of the Penguins, though everyone at the U has some base level of hockey awareness. He explains a bit about the lockout, while Cosima taps at her little black phone, and Delphine tries to look interested.

Midway through the conversation, Cosima gets a call, this one on a pink phone she snatches from her bag and rushes into the hall to answer.

"Her sister," Delphine says, like that explains things.

"OK," Paul says.

Cosima returns, and gives Paul a long look before sitting.

"I was going to call it a night," he says, even though it's barely 8 pm. He hasn't eaten yet, and his stomach is beginning to twist a bit.

"No," Cosima says. "You must join us for dinner." She gives a weird smile, like she's trying to be charming. It ends up being more like baring her teeth.

Delphine has already grabbed his arm like he doesn’t get an option in this. He guesses he doesn’t.

They go some place off-campus. Cosima orders a glass of wine - “make it a double,” she says to the waiter, who shrugs and keeps pouring.

She pays attention to him now, asking a lot of questions, about the league, his style of play, the lockout, the benefits of going to college rather than going through the juniors system in terms of developing Dmen. She seems _skeptical_ , like he’s inventing his career and stats.

Delphine’s noticed the shift in Cosima’s mood too, puts a hand on her shoulder like she’s telling Cosima to restrain her questioning.

She’s asking the kinds of questions that he wished reporters asked, complex things that require diagrams he sketches on a notepad she produces from her messenger bag, but he can’t help but feel that this is an _interrogation_ , not a dinner.

Her pink phone rings again, and she rushes off to answer.

Delphine gives him a conciliatory smile over the glass of white wine she’s been sipping. “Cosima is very … inquisitive,” she says.

“I guess that makes sense,” Paul says. “Science and that.” He takes a swallow of water, goes to mop up the juice that’s dripped from his burger with his sweet potato fries.

“Science,” Delphine agrees, but doesn’t say much more, instead inspecting the remains of her dinner - a steak, which she’d eaten most of during his and Cosima’s conversation. 

Cosima returns from her call, gripping her phone in her hand, knuckles gone white. “So, Paul,” she says, giving a tight smile, “Have you ever heard of the Dyad Institute?”

What follows is an even more bizarre conversation, one where Cosima seems to be trying to get information from him without actually asking for any information.

At one point, Delphine looks something up on her phone, and hands it to Cosima. Paul sees his profile on the Pens site up, though Cosima shakes her head and gives the phone back.

“What’d you think of the lecture?” she asks.

He’s thought about faking an emergency, or getting someone from the team to call him, but every time he darts an eye toward an exit, she glares at him.

“Human cloning?” he says, finally. “Uh, it’d explain the Staals, I guess.”

“Who?” Cosima says, leaning forward, flashing cleavage that Paul resolutely doesn’t look at.

He’s brought up pictures of the Hurricanes, and talked about Jordan’s trade, before he notices just how deflated Cosima looks.

“You were being facetious,” she says.

“Well, yes,” he says. “Because … human cloning.” Apparently, he’s the only one at the table who thinks this is completely impossible.

Cosima calls for the check, _finally_ , and Delphine shoots him yet another apologetic look. He pays, just to make leaving easier. “I can take care of it, if you need to be up early.”

Delphine seems to understand this is ‘Minnesota nice,’ for wanting to get away from them, but Cosima waves him off.

“We don’t mind,” she says, and gives him another one of those fake smiles.

He tips and signs when the check returns, then goes for his coat. It’s gotten chilly out, and they don’t take the time to say a Midwestern goodbye, instead parting ways immediately after leaving the restaurant.

And that’s that for a while, a strange episode in the otherwise boring lockout. He practices, trains, sees his family, enjoys the actual winter setting in. It's fine. It works. 

 

 

The next time he sees Cosima, she’s out of breath, pounding on his door at one in the morning, and accompanied by two other women who look just like her.

“Can we -” she says, and pushes her way into his apartment. The others follow. One is wearing a leather jacket, leather boots, and scowling. The other has her hair pushed back in a headband, and looks, well, strangely normal next to them.

“Oh my effing god, Cosima,” the normal one says. “What are we doing in Paul Martin’s house?”

“Wait, you know who he is?” Cosima says.

“This - this was your plan about our flying under the radar? By going to a _celebrity_ for help?”

The third woman interjects. “Look can he get us the money or - ?” She’s apparently British.

“What do you mean ‘celebrity?’” Cosima says.

“He’s on my _fantasy_ roster,” the normal one hisses. She looks at him, eyes blazing, finger pointed accusingly. “And don’t think I’ve forgiven you for last season, mister.”

“Um,” he says. He’s bleary, having been woken up by her knocking. He’s wearing pajama pants, but hasn’t managed a shirt or his glasses. “Cosima, did you want to, uh, explain?”

She looks at him, chewing on her lip, like she’s debating.

The British one seems more decisive. “We have to tell him if we want help.” She turns and looks at the door, apprehensive.

“Is someone after you?” he says. His glasses are on the coffee table. He puts them on, though regrets not grabbing a shirt when he’d gotten up.

“Yes,” the normal one says, just as Cosima says, “No.”

“Should I call the police?” he asks.

“No!” they all say at once, then descend into bickering.

He goes to get a shirt, mostly to escape whatever’s going on in the other room. He’s really not sure why they’re here, or what in their last meeting made him high on the list of people Cosima thinks she can turn to in an emergency. Unless she’s exhausted that list already, and he’s a final option. For a second, he considers calling someone from the Pens or his family, but what is there to say other than, “A weird scientist and her two sisters showed up at my doorstep demanding … something.” Nealer would probably just suggest an orgy. Not helpful.

When he returns to the living room, they appear to have sorted matters. Cosima is standing a little in front of the others, like she’s been elected the spokesperson.

“Paul,” she says. “These are my sisters, Alison” - she points to the normal one - “and Sarah,” she gestures to the other. “We could use some assistance.”

She looks scared and upset, face tight with dark circles under her eyes, almost the opposite of the overly suspicious woman he’d suffered through dinner with. He can’t bring himself to kick them out.

“Do you have time to explain?” he asks, finally.

She nods and then exhales shakily.

The three of them crowd onto the couch the U provided. He snags three glasses of water, which Cosima accepts and ignores, Sarah gulps in one go, and Alison sips delicately.

He sinks into the armchair opposite the couch and waits.

“There’re people who want -” Cosima begins. “We could use your help. We need funds. And a means out of Minnesota easily. But mostly funds.”

“We’ll pay you back,” Alison says. “I have money, but I can’t access my accounts until we get back to Canada.” She seems sincere, voice shaking, but he knows they probably can’t guarantee anything.

“10 thousand,” Sarah says, before he can ask. “Minimum. Cash.”

“OK,” he says. “Um, well. Why me?”

“You don’t know us,” Cosima says. “You don’t know us, and we’re reasonably sure that you’re not secretly a neolutionist. And you actually answered your door. And haven’t kicked us out. When someone comes to ask, we weren’t here or you didn’t answer.”

“There are cameras -” he says.

“Not anymore,” Sarah says. She leans forward, hands on her knees, gives him a long, appraising look. “Cosima says you’re rich. So they won’t bribe you. They’ll come to you and say that we’re sick or in danger or crazy. Something to play on your being ‘nice.’”

‘Nice,’ like the kind of ‘nice,’ that makes him let three random strangers into his apartment in the middle of the night, he doesn’t say.

“We are in danger,” Sarah continues. “From _them._.”

All three of them glance at the door now, Cosima looking visibly scared, Alison clearly trying not to, and Sarah squaring her shoulders as if looking for a fight.

“Can you tell me -,” he begins, but thinks better of it. Cosima’s eyes have begun to water, and Alison reaches over to the box of Kleenex, handing her one without even looking at her. There’s something in that gesture that makes up his mind.

“It’ll take until tomorrow to get the money,” he says. “And it’ll have to be 9900. The bank has to ask about more than 10 thousand.”

“That’s fine,” Cosima says, though Sarah apparently doesn’t agree, because she shoots Cosima a look. “We can work with it.”

They end up drawing up something like a contract, though all of them seem hesitant to sign their last names. Cosima sighs, finally, and puts her full name. “He could look it up through the university system, anyway,” she says. “We had to ditch our phones, and our email is probably being monitored.” She disregards his raised eyebrows. “We’ll contact you when we can get you the money.”

He doesn’t think that’ll happen, but, heck, he can probably write this off as something - a cash donation to charity, a business expense, a highly-priced adventure, a bizarre dream.

After, they all look suddenly exhausted, the way after he feels after a big loss. “Do you need a place to sleep?” he says, rubbing the bridge of his nose where his glasses sit.

“That would be wonderful,” Alison says, giving him what might be the first real smile any of them have. Cosima and Sarah end up taking the bed, while Alison is staying on the couch. He can sleep in the chair. He’s used to sleeping on buses and airplanes. This isn’t much worse.

“One of us should keep watch,” she says, when the others have crashed. “I’m supposed to wake Sarah in a few hours.” She says it in a way that he knows she won’t.

He fixes her a cup of tea, which she accepts gratefully, blowing steam off the top. She’s pretty, or at least pretty in a way that’s easier to understand than Sarah or Cosima. Even though the apartment is slightly overheated, she wraps herself in the throw blanket from the back of the couch. They’d dead-bolted the door and drawn most of the blinds; it would feel cozy, almost, if it weren’t two in the morning and Alison didn’t look like she’d been crying recently.

“So,” he says. “You’re sisters.”

“Mmm,” she says, slurping her tea.

“But Sarah’s British and you’re Canadian, and Cosima is … Cosima.”

“Yep,” she says.

“Triplets?”

“Something like that,” she says. “But raised apart. We didn’t know about each other until we were adults.”

“You seem very … different from one another,” he says.

She laughs, then, sudden and bright. “You’re sweet,” she says. “I can see why Cosima came to you.”

“Because I’m sweet?” he asks.

She shrugs. “Or because you know we’re all lying to you, and are smart enough not to ask.” She takes a big sip of tea, then. “So, let’s talk about how you ruined my fantasy roster and about how you’re going to help me fix it.”

They spend the next few hours going over what he thinks of as the perfect NHL team, then transition into selecting US and Canadian Olympic rosters, then discussing promising prospects in the Pens and Leafs organizations.

Finally, they just end up watching infomercials, with the volume down, so it’s just spokespeople modeling using whatever kitchen equipment is being sold. Alison apparently owns some of it, and begins to fill in the missing dialog, doing different voices for each presenter. It’s not really that funny, more sweet than anything, like something you’d do to entertain children. She gives a female presenter a high squeaky voice, like she’s sucked helium, and a male one a British accent that’s like a deep version of Sarah’s.

He laughs, and she shushes him, with a glance toward the closed bedroom door and one toward the apartment door, like his laughing will bring whoever is chasing them in.

“You have kids?” he asks.

She considers the question.

“You don’t have to -” he says.

“Yes,” she says. “Two.” Then, she really makes up her mind, because she digs into some interior pocket of her handbag and pulls out a photo and waves him over to where she’s sitting on the couch. “This is Gemma,” she says, once he’s settled. “And this is Oscar.”

“Very cute,” he says, and she just hmms a response. She looks sad, worn by more than missing a night’s sleep, holding the photo in one hand and her now-cold cup of tea in the other. Her hand holding the mug begins to tremble, and he takes it from her and places it on the coffee table, trying not to slosh it onto her or the couch.

She gives a thin smile, and wraps the blanket even more tightly around herself. “You want to hear something funny? I didn’t let them play mites hockey because I thought it was too dangerous for them.” She tucks the picture back into her purse. “And now I can’t even be around them, because of -” She clamps her mouth shut and just goes for a Kleenex, wiping at her eyes.

They sit like that for a while, Alison’s sniffling the only noise. They’d agreed for a 5am wake up, enough time for them to clear the building. He’d meet Alison at the ‘drop point’ - really, just an intersection they’d selected as probably being free of traffic cameras - after the bank. The entire thing sounded like some kind of spy novel, like something that was happening to someone else.

He considers not showing up, just going to the police instead. But they hadn’t threatened him, hadn’t done anything other than _ask_.

Alison sniffles again, and maybe they’d put her out here on purpose, knowing Cosima or Sarah wouldn’t have the same effect on him. It’s working, though, especially when Alison forces a smile at him through her tears.

“Did you need …” he says. “Will 10 thousand be enough?”

“It’ll do,” she says. She does fall asleep eventually, so quietly that he doesn’t even notice, just feels her relax next to him on the couch. She does it in such a way that he can’t really move without waking her, not even when she tips her head onto his shoulder and sort of nuzzles his neck sleepily.

He can never tell James about this, because it’ll be forever remembered as the time Paul paid $10,000 to have three hot identical triplets kick him out of his own bed, then leave the state.

Cosima find them after the clock radio alarm goes off. She looks rested, even after the few hours of sleep she’d gotten. “Coffee,” she says, instead of ‘good morning,’ but Paul agrees. He’d gotten a Keurig, and he brews one for each them, and then one for Alison, when the noise of the coffee brewing wakes her up.

Sarah wanders in a bit later, looking oddly vulnerable in thick socks, with her hair a mess. She grunts when he offers her a cup of coffee. All three of them resume their place on his couch. “We should probably review the plan,” Cosima says, so they do. It’s not hard - what they’re doing isn’t exactly illegal, just shady and weird, but they go over it again.

The sun has begun to rise by the time they leave, thin light in the morning chill. They all attempt to look as identical as possible, so that whatever cameras do pick them up won’t know who is who. Cosima ditches her glasses and schools her hair into something approximating a bun; Alison and Sarah both put on headbands. He has two old U sweatshirts, both worn and far too big on them.

“I’ll send them back,” Alison says. “When I can.”

“They’re a gift,” he says. “Don’t worry about it.”

Something about that makes her stand on her tiptoes and kiss him softly on the cheek. “Thank you,” she says, voice low. “And work on your shooting percentage.”

 

He doesn’t hear from them after the drop, doesn’t see Cosima’s name in the news, either. That’s probably for the best. The lockout continues. Christmas comes and goes. The day before New Year’s, he receives a package with no return address. In it, there’s one of the sweatshirts, washed and folded neatly, a card on pale purple stationary, and a cashier’s check for $10,000 made out to him from Alison Hendrix.

The note is brief, thanking him, inviting him for dinner if he’s ever in Toronto, saying the Alison was going to hold on to the other shirt, if he doesn’t mind. He doesn’t.

There’s set of pictures with the note, four different headshots. One of which he recognizes as a Pens prospect, Beau Bennett, at the Draft. The others also look just like Bennett, but one of the guys pictured has dark hair and glasses, another has a visible neck tattoo, the fourth with hair almost to his shoulders. Two are mugshots, one is a clip from a newspaper. All have different names listed.

“Come see me when you play the Leafs,” the note says. He will.


End file.
